


Origin

by jamaillith



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamaillith/pseuds/jamaillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I want in.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008, pre-Wolverine.

‘I want in.’ 

William Stryker glances up from the paperwork he’s been staring at for the last ten minutes. 

‘James,’ he says, a statement rather than a greeting. He leans back in his chair to regard the man on the other side of his desk. ‘‘In’ what?’ 

‘You know damn well what, Stryker,’ growls James. He’s wearing fatigue pants and a black tee-shirt that makes the dog-tags resting against the rise of his chest gleam like silver. He smells faintly of gasoline and sweat, and he’s pissed as all hell. 

William raises his eyebrows; steeples his fingers. He allows himself a moment’s triumph. 

‘I don’t think I do, solider.’ James’ nostrils flare and he glowers at Stryker. The bare bulb behind his head casts his face in shadows. He takes a step forward, his boots grating against the concrete floor, and rests the knuckles of one hand on the metal edge of the desk. Leans forward. 

‘You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about, Stryker,’ he snarls. William can smell the whiskey on his breath. 

‘Are you threatening me, James?’ He asks, his voice a steel trap. A smile drifts against the corners of his mouth. ‘Because if you are-’

James’ upper lip curls, exposing slightly pointed teeth. 

‘The programme.’ He straightens. Scowls. ‘I want in.’

Stryker narrows his eyes a little. 

‘Who told you?’ 

‘Creed.’ 

Of course. 

‘Creed told you wrong, James.’ Stryker sits up in his chair, thumbing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Now, I suggest you turn around and-’

James’ hand is entirely unexpected, but it’s enough to make William grunt as it collides with his throat just under the shelf of his chin and grips him there. He sees a half-blurred image- his glasses are knocked askew- the grey ceiling; the top of James’ head, swimming across his vision like pondweed. William gags; tries to swallow but can’t. James pulls him upwards- he struggles to stand, but his chair is bolted to the floor and won’t move behind his calves. 

‘You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, pencil-dick.’ James’s hand tightens. William feels his fingertips brush the papers on his desk. He chokes as hard fingertips press into the delicate tubes of his throat. 

‘Don’t..’ the word hurts, comes out as half-gargle, half-whisper; a painful, insistent pulse begins to beat at his temples. 

‘Don’t what, Stryker?’ James pulls him against the edge of the desk- it bruises his thighs. He’d fall if it weren’t for James’ grip. William reaches up to touch the hairy forearm. James’ breath washes over him, hot and stinking of alcohol. His eyes flash blue and mean. ‘I could kill you without even tryin’, you pathetic shit.’ 

The world swims. 

‘..uuh-tee..’ William whisper-gargles, his mouth gaping like a fish’s. 

James loosens his grip a little. 

‘What did you say?’

‘Fu-uhken..’ William draws a thin, sandpapery breath, ‘mutie.’

James yanks him closer still. William lets out a liquid yell. He knows the guards down the hall can hear him. He’s told them not to enter. 

‘What the fuck did you just say?’ James snarls. William feels a hand in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Forcing his head up. 

‘I said..’ William’s vision is queasy; everything above his collarbone throbs, ‘you.. fuckin.. mutie..’ 

James throws him. He cracks his knee on the arm of his chair, half-falls against the desk, skids a little away across the floor on one shoulder. 

‘Don’t you ever-‘ James roars, ‘ever call me that name, you piece of shit.’ He stalks over. His boots are heavy- the kick that lands in William’s thigh deadens every muscle from ass to shin. William hasn’t the breath to scream. 

‘Ever!’ 

William curls up on himself. Some part of his mind is wondering what his wife will think of the purpling splotches on his neck; his limp. His broken glasses. He thinks maybe it is worth it. 

James leans down, grabs a handful of William’s shirt. 

‘Wai’-’ cries William. James pauses. 

‘Wai’.. please..’ His breathing sounds like the toy engine he had as a child- air shrieking out of a tin tube. 

‘How’s the boy, Stryker?’ James asks. ‘How’s your son? Still seein’ those angels of his-’ 

‘Weapon.. X..’ Stryker whispers. ‘It’s.. called.. Weapon X.’ 

James lets go of his shirt and leans back on his haunches. William swallows and the pain in his throat eases a little.

‘Of course it is,’ he says. William can hear the smile in his voice. 

‘Classified.. information..’

‘Yeah, well, what ain’t these days?’

‘I can.. get you in..’ 

James is silent for a moment. Then he stands, a shadowed shape as dark as William imagines death is. A strong hand slides under one of his arms, hauling him suddenly- dizzyingly- upwards. His leg buckles beneath him and he has to catch himself on the edge of the desk to stay upright. His head pounds. 

‘I could have you.. shot..’ He croaks.

‘Be my fuckin’ guest,’ James replies. He turns and walks to the door. 

‘You’ll regret.. this..’ Stryker half-whispers. James doesn’t look back. 

‘I’m countin’ on it,’ he says. 

Stryker watches him go, and smiles through the pain.


End file.
